There’s another crash. Smaller this time.
And then a very distinct grunt. The grunt of someone in pain.
“I have to get in there,” I beg. “Please.”
“Like I said,” he replies with a completely unflappable expression, “you have the power to get in there.”
I stare at him, trying to determine just how serious he is.
From the looks of it—really fucking serious.
“Fine!” I practically yell, throwing up my arms in defeat. “Fine. Let’s play your stupid, twisted, sadistic game, you brute.”
“Flattery’s not gonna work on me, sweetheart,” he says, throwing me a wink.
“Don’t wink at me. And don’t call me sweetheart.”
“Jesus,” he mutters to himself, “no one has a sense of humor anymore.”
“Are we playing or not?”
“Okay, first question,” he says. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” I reply immediately.
He gives me a nod of encouragement. “You can take a step forward.”
I take the biggest step I can manage and he rolls his eyes and pulls me back a little.
“Come on now,” he chides. “Don’t cheat.”
I shake off his hand. “How old are you?” I demand in return.
“This game isn’t really about me,” he points out. “There’s nothing I want that you can give me.”
From the way he keeps looking at my body, I’m inclined to disagree.
But there’s no way I’m going there right now.
“Typical,” I snap.
He chuckles. “Okay, okay. If it means that much to you, I’m eighteen as well.”
I keep my expression disinterested, but I’m actually surprised by his admission.
Not just by the fact that he’s decided to answer me. But by the answer itself.
Eighteen?
He’s exactly my age, give or take a few months. I’d been right in assuming he was young.
I just never imagined he’d be that young.
He had the kind of confidence most of the boys I know would kill for.
“Does that surprise you?” he asks.
I try to keep my thoughts off my face as I reply. “Not really. Given your cheeks are as smooth as a baby’s arse, I figured you were just a kid. You definitely look like one.”